


The Waiting Place

by thatdamneddame



Series: 98 and 3/4 Percent Guaranteed [2]
Category: Captain America, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatdamneddame/pseuds/thatdamneddame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts like this: Phil comes home drunk from his high school reunion, Bucky comes home without an arm, and Natasha is sick of Bruce's shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Place

**Author's Note:**

> I have no one to blame for this but myself. As per uzsh all my thanks forever and a day go to prettyasadiagram who, once again, beta'd this for me and listened to me complain about everything and is kind enough to kindly mock me for starting this story with sex (spoiler alert, not really, it's the second sentence).
> 
> Title, once more, from "Oh, The Places You'll Go."
> 
> My eternal thanks and love to everyone who read, commented and left kudos on You're Mountain Is Waiting. I love you like a love song.

It starts like this: Phil comes home drunk from his high school reunion.

“You’re magnificent,” he smiles, crow’s feet crinkling his face, tie loosened. It’s one of the irritating things about Phil, that he never slurs when he’s drunk. That he remains distressingly in control of his motor functions. Although, that’s not always such a bad thing.

“Am I?” Clint asks and kisses Phil before he can say another word, and here’s where Phil gets sloppy. Where Phil Coulson, so contained, gets loose.

Phil kisses Clint like he wants to devour him. Like he wants to own him and possess him and _mark him_ , when Phil doesn’t even like holding hands in public. And Clint’s always been his own man, but when Phil kisses him like this, he’d give it all up because, at the end of the day, he is Phil’s and Phil is his and Clint can’t help but make this needy little noises when Phil mouths at his neck, when Phil’s hands dip under the waistband of Clint’s sweats.

“You lush,” Clint teases as Phil fumbles with the drawstring of Clint’s pants, and when Phil laughs, Clint’s heart still skips a beat, even after all these years.

Phil tips them onto the sofa and kisses Clint like he’s going to die without him. They’re a tangle of limbs and, really, they need to invest in a bigger couch because it always ends up here when Phil’s like this and there is no way Clint is ever giving up couch sex.

Clint helps Phil out of his pants, it’s the least he can do, and then Phil is lining them up, is burrowing his face into Clint’s neck and is moaning Clint’s name. And really, there’s nothing for Clint to do but rock into Phil’s grasp, to hold onto Phil like there’s nothing else in the world because there really isn’t.

And it’s never long and it’s never dignified when Phil’s like this but it doesn’t matter when Phil is gasping Clint’s name, when Phil’s hand is on Clint’s cock and when Clint is embarrassing himself by coming first because he never could resist Phil like this.

When Phil follows Clint over the edge, a few shaky thrusts later, he’s laughing, teasing, “I’m the drunk one here.”

Clint has never felt ashamed around Phil, has always felt that he could be exactly who he is and Phil has always loved him for that. “I didn’t want you to feel bad,” he tells him, presses a kiss to Phil’s cheek.

He can feel Phil smile, can feel himself smile in return, automatic. There is come drying between them and they still have most of their clothes on and Clint wasn’t even this much of a hot mess in college, but Phil’s breath is warm on his neck and Clint has never loved anyone more.

“We can’t fall asleep here,” Clint protests, as Phil’s breathing slows and Phil just says, “Maybe you can’t, but I’m comfortable,” and that’s sort of the end of that.

 

 

Sleep lasts until the dog barks outside and Phil is awake, saying, “He’s been outside this entire time?”

Clint has a headache from too little sleep and a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch and there is dried come on his shirt. “He’s a dog,” he tells Phil, wishing a little for death, “He can stay outside.”

Wisely, Phil doesn’t fight it, which is good, because he said the exact same thing to Clint last month when Clint came home late and found Phil watching the Red Sox play the Yankees as Loki dug up all the flowers in the front yard. “I’m going to bed,” Phil says instead, kisses Clint on the head before he goes, “Let the dog in.”

“Yes, dear,” Clint agrees, lets his eyes flutter close for that brief kiss, and basks in the feeling of being loved.

 

 

(When Clint climbs into bed, Phil curls up beside him and whispers, “I love you,” into his neck, and he must be entering the hungover portion of his drinking, because Phil is never so free with the cuddling and the endearments on the wrong side of two AM.

Clint just holds him tight, “I love you too.”)

 

 

In the morning Clint asks, “How was it?”

And Phil answers, “Eric’s getting divorced,” which isn’t so much an answer as an explanation. But it’s not all of it, so Clint waits, familiar with Phil’s silences, and eventually Phil says, “Tom’s a grandpa now.”

Clint sits down because he figures this is going to turn into one of those conversations where they ought to be sitting down, “Are you having a hangover crisis about age or about kids?”

Phil has a sip of his coffee and looks supremely disappointed in the way this morning is going already, “Can’t it be both?”

“You want to talk about having kids again?” Clint asks, because he’s totally okay with that, “We can talk about kids again.”

Phil scowls, which Clint knows is just how he says _why do you insist on having important conversations in the morning when I’m hungover?_ “I don’t like it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”

Clint throws his head back and laughs, “Babe, I don’t think _anyone_ could accuse us of ever being emotionally mature.”

When Phil smiles too, Clint knows things are going to be okay. When Phil says, “Yeah, I want to talk about kids again,” Clint thinks that things could be great.

 

 

On Monday, Natasha asks, “How was your weekend?”

And Clint tells her, “You got my husband drunk,” which makes Natasha smile and the rest of the History department scoot their chairs just a little farther away. Except for Steve. One of these days, Steve is going to wise up and learn, but today is not that day.

“So, good then?” she goes on because she is a terror and a wonder and the greatest thing to happen to Clint outside of Phil.

Clint just smiles back, which makes everyone edge away a little more, “Definitely.”

 

***

 

Natasha takes Phil to his high school reunion. Natasha takes Phil for Three Very Good Reasons:

1      Bruce is in India and Betty might be there and Natasha is currently sick of his shit.

2      Clint is coming back from a conference in Branson and won’t get back until 9.

3      There is no way on God’s green earth that Phil is going to his reunion alone because he has a good goddamn life and those bastards need to know it.

 

Phil puts up a fight, of course he does, citing, “I’m a grown man. I don’t need an escort,” but his heart’s not in it. No one likes going to their High School Reunion alone.

 

 

Phil’s friends from high school are all bland and competent. They all lead average lives and have names like _Eric_ and _Tom_ and _Russell_. They all look at Natasha like she is an object to be worshipped and she knows, when she comes back from the bathroom, that they have been talking about her, asking Phil about her. Natasha can tell from the set of Phil’s shoulders that he is uncomfortable with their questions and that he misses Clint.

There are five texts, three missed phone calls, and two voicemails on Natasha’s phone, only one of them from someone she is currently on speaking terms with. She figures spiking the punch can only make the night go better.

 

 

(When Bruce asks, weeks later, if Natasha got his messages, she tells him no. She doesn’t tell him that she deleted every single one without listening, but Bruce is a smart man. It’s not that hard to figure out.)

 

 

Phil says, in the car ride home, “I remember why we had to destroy the wedding video now. Remind me to be angry with you in the morning.”

Natasha just laughs, glad that whatever had been weighing on Phil before is gone. “I’ll be sure to call, bright and early.”

Phil slumps his head against the window and wishes aloud for sweet death. All in a day’s work, Natasha figures.

 

 

Bruce and Natasha are not together, really. They’re not _not_ _together_ either, and Natasha easily brushes aside Clint’s middle-school romance jokes.

Natasha doesn’t believe in love, and even if she did, Bruce is not who she would have in mind. He is too soft for her tastes. He is too uncontained for her. She has never been fond of uncertainty, but there is a surety in his hands, in his gaze, that she cannot shake. Bruce talks about particle waves the way poets speak about love and Natasha drinks it in every time. Natasha has always known exactly who she is, has always had a distaste for metaphors, but she can’t help but think about moths and flames when Bruce holds her close and whispers the principle of least action into her ear.

But Bruce is a problem because he’s become a constant in her life and she doesn’t even know when that happened. Not like Clint and Phil after. Natasha didn’t mean to let Bruce in, but now they go to the ballet together and he listens to Natasha tell him about home, about Russia, and he hums “Alouette” when he bakes snickerdoodles in her kitchen.

Not that it matters when it happened. He’s in India now for a conference and Betty is there and Bruce has always been a passionate man, always hidden it behind elbow patches and soft words, but you don’t marry someone because you don’t love them. And while Natasha doesn’t believe in love, she doesn’t think it just goes away either. When people give it, they mean it, and a part of Bruce will always love Betty. And Natasha’s okay with that. Really. She is.

Besides, there are always other men. Besides, Natasha doesn’t need anyone keeping her bed warm at night. Besides, Betty divorced Bruce, in the end.

 

 

Bruce calls. “I’ll be home Friday,” he says, “In time for bowling.”

Natasha viciously circles the wrong use of genitive on the test she’s grading, “Did you have a good time?” she asks, voice carefully neutral.

Bruce sighs down the line, and Natasha tries not to imagine him sitting in his hotel, linen shirt unbuttoned in the noonday heat. “It was fine,” and then, “Betty cancelled last minute.”

Natasha prides herself on knowing exactly what people mean. On knowing when to call bullshit and when to push for more and when all you need is a little patience. Natasha understands euphemisms and white lies and when people are lying to themselves. The problem with Bruce, though, is she never knows. She understands his words but not his cadence. She wishes that she could see his eyes, because they always tell the truth, even if she doesn’t know exactly what it means.

 “Fly safe,” she tells him, because she doesn’t trust herself to say anything else.

But Bruce already seems to understand what she’s not saying, understand what she’s still trying to figure out herself, “I’ll see you soon.”

 

 

Natasha does not go bowling that month.

“Dogsitting is not a legitimate excuse to miss Thor trying to complete the Chili Dog Challenge,” Clint tells her seriously.

“Loki peed on my Louboutins last time I left him alone,” Natasha replies seriously, which is true. That damn dog is a menace, not matter what Clint and Phil say.

Phil sighs, long suffering, behind them. Natasha suspects that the timing of this trip was all about him avoiding the Chili Dog Challenge. Phil is the only one of them who seems concerned that they are professors, that they’re supposed to be role models.

“We’re going to be late,” Phil says, glancing at his watch. It’s a total lie, but Phil has always understood when to push and when to let sleeping dogs lie, “Call us if you need anything.”

Natasha herds them out of her apartment, smiles because these are her _people_ , no matter what happens, “I never do.”

Clint laughs, delighted, challenges, “Liar,” and Natasha wishes that weren’t quite so true.

 

 

Natasha does not call Bruce and Bruce does not call her. It’s fine. They’re not a couple. They’ve gone without talking before, when Bruce is tucked away in his lab, terrifying interns and winning medals. When Natasha is in Russia and her body remembers what the cold feels like and she doesn’t want to talk to Bruce because his voice has always felt too hot in her ear.

She takes Loki out for a run, lets him nip at her heels, and doesn’t think about how her apartment feels too empty without Bruce there.

 

 

The first thing Bucky ever says to Natasha is “Hey, sweet cheeks, you come here often?”

She is sitting on Steve’s couch and they’re watching _Breakfast Club_. She refuses to call this hiding from her problems, no matter what Clint’s texts say.

The first thing Natasha ever says to Bucky is, “You call me that again and I’ll arm wrestle you,” while Steve uses the Lord’s name in vain, already sounding resigned to it.

Natasha doesn’t know what Steve’s problem is. Bucky’s answering laugh is genuine and Natasha has always liked men who know exactly who they are.

 

 

The thing is, Bucky has the smile of a playboy and a face made for brooding. He also has one arm and a body full of scars, but that’s okay because Natasha has always liked imperfections, has a collection of mismatched china to prove it.

Bucky calls her _sweetcheeks_ and _doll_ and _darling_ and he never touches her without her permission and understands the difference between _alone_ and _lonely_. When Bucky smiles, Natasha can see shadows in his eyes, but, Natasha thinks, that’s okay. He knows what it means to live a life on the edge.

Natasha needs something new in her life. She thinks Bucky will do.

 

***

 

When Bucky comes back home and he doesn’t have an arm. Bucky comes back and he’s the same grinning asshole he’s always been, but he only has one arm. Bucky comes back and he didn’t even fucking call to give a heads up, just steps out of the terminal, uniform snug over his shoulders, left sleeve pinned neatly, like nothing was ever there at all.

Steve says, “I thought I told you not to do anything stupid,” and hugs a little tighter than usual.

Bucky laughs his same old laugh. “Would you believe that I didn’t?” he asks, and maybe he holds on a little tighter too.

 

 

Peggy makes tea and slaps Bucky upside the head for not calling them sooner.

“It wouldn’t change anything,” he shrugs, “Besides, I’m intact, more or less.”

Steve can tell that Peggy’s having none of it, but she bites her tongue for now. “We’re just glad you’re back,” she says, holding Bucky by the shoulders like she always has, unflinching and unconcerned that her grip is no longer the same, “Steve’s been morose without you.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have any other friends,” Bucky laughs, ruffling Steve’s hair when Peggy loosens her grip, and for a second, it feels like nothing has changed at all.

 

 

There are appointments with doctors and physical therapists and army counselors. Bucky goes to them when he feels like it and Steve bites his tongue because Bucky's never responded well to mothering. So Steve doesn't push and Steve doesn't ask and Bucky sits at home watching _Toddlers and Tiaras_ when he’s not being bullied by Peggy into tidying the kitchen.

And most days Bucky smiles. And most days Bucky laughs. It’s the days he doesn’t that worry Steve.

 

 

One day Bucky says, “Sometimes I forget, you know, that I only have one,” and he shrugs like he’s trying raise his left arm.

The Babe is on screen saying, “Let me tell you something kid; everybody gets the chance to do something great,” and Steve has always been just enough of an idealist to believe that.

“Phantom limb?” Steve asks, forced casual, because _of course_ he’s done his reading. He’s a professor, for God’s sake, and even if he wasn’t, he’s always been curious. He’s always been ready to give the world for Bucky because Bucky’s always been right there, willing to give it anything he’s got for Steve. He’s done his reading because that’s what you do when you love somebody.

Bucky shrugs again, indifferent, rests his head on the back of the couch, “I just stop remembering that it’s gone.”

Steve thinks about his childhood spent reaching for things just out of grasp. He thinks that Bucky can’t even reach. Steve thinks that it’s not so bad, the not remembering. That not remembering isn’t the same as forgetting and that admitting is the first step to recovery.

“I can remind you, if you want,” Steve offers instead, “Hey, man, what’s the sound of one hand clapping?”

And Bucky laughs just as Smalls starts to believe in himself just a little bit more on screen, and Steve thinks that everything is going to be okay.

 

 

He does not mean for Natasha and Bucky to meet the way they do. Heck, Steve didn’t even mean to introduce Natasha to Bucky first. Steve hadn’t really thought about it, but he should have, because it’s evident from the start that things are going to end badly. Bucky’s always liked a challenge and Natasha has never backed down from anything in her life.

But Bucky sits down and watches the end of the movie with them, and Natasha shares the popcorn and, when Bucky leaves to use the bathroom, Natasha doesn’t ask about it. Doesn’t ask _what happened?_ or _when did he get here?_ just accepts it as part of life, as a part of Steve. Which is good, because Bucky has always been Steve’s family. Which is bad, because the only time Natasha doesn’t ask is when she’s afraid that she’ll give too much of herself away.

 

 

Tony says, "You ashamed of us, Rogers?" perching himself on Steve's desk and ignoring the neatly stacked papers there, "Natasha told me you're hiding the man candy."

"No, she didn’t," Steve replies, tugging the papers out from under Tony. He's in one of his suits today, something sleek and too expensive for a professor, but Steve can still see grease and ink smudged on the cuffs.

"Well, no," Tony concedes, making no move to get off Steve's desk anytime soon, "but she would have if she wasn’t so Russian."

Steve doubts this, but he knows that Tony's not going to leave this alone. For as much as the man prefers machines to people, for as much as he relies on Pepper to keep him a functioning human being, Tony Stark’s brain was made to solve problems, and once his interest is piqued, he’s like a dog with a bone.

"My friend Bucky just got back from his third tour." Steve says, "He’s crashing with Peggy and me for a while."

Tony smiles, broad and charming, all bravado and nonchalance, “Excellent. Bring him bowling. Thor’s coming again.”

Steve is not actually sure that Thor is any kind of incentive.

 

 

Steve’s not sure it’s the greatest idea to bring his friend with potential PTSD and a freshly amputated arm bowling. Peggy thinks this is bullshit and that Steve is being overprotective again, “He’d tell you if it was too much,” she asserts while doing the washing up, “He lost an arm, Steve, not the will to live. You can’t make all his choices for him.”

Which Steve supposes is true, in some respect, but he also knows that Bucky likes to push himself and hasn’t actually been going to those counseling appointments the army doctors mandated. "He’s not going to say no to a challenge," Steve says instead, which is true enough.

"Fine," Peggy’s tone is the one she uses when she’s ready to fight and means to win, "lunch then."

Steve’s never been one to back down from a fight, not when he’s certain he’s right, but Steve has always known that, when it comes to Peggy, it’s important to pick his battles. Besides, she loves Bucky too. "Lunch then," he agrees.

 

 

Lunch involves Steve and Bucky trying to eat as many spicy wings as humanly possible. It’s Wednesday, which means Natasha has her afternoon seminar and Clint is having lunch with Phil and Steve isn’t normally a coward, but he misses his friend. He wants to make sure he understands Bucky and his silences and the way he moves within the world before introducing him to these people Steve now calls friends.

It ends, as these thing unfortunately tend to, in Steve having his picture snapped unsubtly by one of his students and Bucky laughing, tears rolling down his face and hot sauce down the front of his shirt. It’s not so bad, after all.

 

***

 

Natasha and Bruce are going through a thing. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again and every time everyone walks on eggshells around them because no one really knows what it means. Peggy thinks it’s bullshit.

“Have you ever _asked_?” asks Peggy. She’s having lunch with Pepper and Phil, like she does every fourth Wednesday. Usually Natasha is with them, but Natasha’s out, she’s been told. They’ve all been told. Peggy’s never really had much patience for being blown off via text.

“I don’t know her well enough,” Pepper says, and Peggy has always been fond of how sensible Pepper is.

 Phil adds, “She hasn’t said anything to Clint,” like that means anything, which it does. Peggy has been here long enough to know that it means everything, and even though she wants to argue, she doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to secret keeping and co-dependence, not when Steve and Bucky are at home watching _Sport Center_ like it holds the answers to the universe.

“What are they even fighting over?” Peggy demands, familiar with Bruce and Natasha’s spats, but unfamiliar with the causes.

“Oh no,” Phil says, a smile in his voice, “this is what happens when they _stop_ fighting.”

Peggy gives up. She will never understand this country.

 

 

Peggy loves Steve, that’s not really a question. She still remembers when they met, when Steve was small and skinny and his eyes shone with something Peggy didn’t quite understand yet. She was twenty and covered up her insecurities in red lipstick and scalding intellect. But Steve was soft where he should be and strong where it counted and Peggy had loved him in the indirect, uncultivated way of youth. She still has a picture of them standing where the Berlin Wall once was, wind whipping through their hair, smiles too bright for the time and the place, but it’s her favorite. It’s in a silver frame now, sits perched on her desk amongst her books and Steve blushes whenever he sees it.

Peggy had loved him then and she loves him now and _of course_ she would move to America for him. England is her home, but it has denied her possibility. And, besides, Steve has always been her home, too. So she comes to America and sets up a life and finds that Steve has already carved out a little spot for her, finds that it’s not strange or terrifying, finds that life here actually, sort of, fits.

 

 

(That does not mean that homesickness never comes, but Peggy makes herself a cuppa and gets herself some biscuits and when that fails, she just rings her mum.)

 

 

Colonel Chester Phillips smokes cigars and drinks a glass of scotch every day at five o’clock. He was in the army for twenty-five years but only talks about it in broad, sweeping strokes. Peggy thinks he’s wonderful.

“How’s that lump of a fiancé of yours?” he asks. They’re sitting in his sunroom, papers scattered between them. They’re writing a book, or at least they’re trying to. Right now, they’re looking out into the autumn afternoon, enjoying the sunshine while it lasts.

“He’s well,” Peggy tells him, knows that for all of Chester’s antagonism, he actually cares, “We have one of his friends staying with us right now. He just got back from Afghanistan.”

The Colonel seems to ponder that over. “That’s good of you,” he decides, and Peggy knows that there’s more to that story than he’s telling.

“He’s like family,” Peggy tells him, “It’s only right.”

“Just as long as he cleans up after himself,” the Colonel says, but Peggy knows affection when she hears it.

 

 

(“Only my wife and my mother ever called me Chester,” the Colonel grumbles whenever Peggy calls him by his given name, but she knows that, one day, when someone else makes the same mistake he’s going to say, “Only Peggy calls me Chester,” and that’s going to be the end of that.)

 

 

She tried to get a job when she first came over, she truly did. But the times are tough and Peggy didn’t come to this country to live on the opposite coast of Steve.

“We don’t have to stay here,” Steve tells her, “We can make this work.” And Peggy agrees, but she doesn’t think moving is the answer. Steve has a job and the possibility of tenure and friends who are weird and wonderful and understand that Steve is a person to be treasured.

Phil tells her that he’ll keep an eye out for any job prospects, and, really, that’s the only reassurance Peggy needs. Phil does not promise lightly, and neither does Peggy. This life here, the one Steve started carving out for himself, is hers now too. And she is going to put down roots and make a life for herself, because Peggy was born fighting, born with her umbilical cord wrapped around her throat, and has always understood that sometimes life is a struggle. Has always lived for that first breath of success. But, she thinks as she watches Steve do the washing up, afternoon light making his hair glow in the sun, that she just needs to start fighting for different things now.

And, besides, the Colonel had called two months in, had told her that he was writing a book but he hated damn historians. At least Peggy knew up from down. It wasn’t a job, per say, and it wasn’t the possibility of tenure. It was something better.

 

 

“What are you going to do about Natasha?” Peggy asks. Steve is still in class, so Peggy has stepped in to see Phil, because of all Steve’s friends, Phil is her favorite.

Phil shrugs, “There’s nothing to do.”

“Fine then,” Peggy acquiesces. If Phil says there’s nothing to do, then there’s nothing to do. He’s not one for beating around the bushes and he always sees people exactly as they are. Peggy hasn’t known him long, but she trusts him. “If there’s nothing to be said about Natasha, are you at least going to tell me where you and Clint are always skulking off to?”

Phil’s smile is small and private and, Peggy knows, has nothing to do with her. “Soon,” he promises, which he doesn’t do lightly, “We just have a few more things to work out.”

Peggy remembers when her life held no mysteries. She misses it.

 

 

When she finds Bucky and Natasha doing yoga in the living room one Sunday afternoon, Peggy just thinks, _fuck it_. There is clearly no fighting the crazy and at least Bucky seems happy.

 

***

 

Tony asks, “Where’s Natasha?” and when Bruce answers, automatic, “Out with a friend,” the whole group tries to pretend that they didn’t just suck in a collective gasp. Bruce, however, carries on eating his chili cheese fries like nothing in the world is wrong.

The thing is, Bruce _never_ knows where Natasha is. Always says, “I’m not her keeper,” and looks to Clint, _who always knows_. But Clint hasn’t been around a lot lately, keeps going in and out of town with Phil, and answering questions about his whereabouts with increasingly vulgar jokes. And Clint clearly doesn’t know where she is, not if the way he curses under his breath and pulls out his phone with the air of a man who knows that he is destined for the gallows means anything.

“What do you mean, ‘out with a friend’?” Tony asks the room at large, “We _are_ her friends.”

Steve ignores him, like they all do, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I’m going outside and call Bucky,” Steve tells Peggy, voice pitched low. He doesn’t wait for her answer, just leaves, thinking about how Bucky has always liked a challenge. How Natasha is just his type. How Steve knew from the beginning that this could only end one way.

 

 

(Bucky doesn’t answer. Steve isn’t surprised, he just hope Bruce never finds out.)

 

 

“Well,” Peggy says in the ride back home, “That was an interesting night.”

Steve does not think she’s talking about Dr. Donald Blake—known to his friends as Thor thanks to his petite and brilliant girlfriend getting perhaps a bit too drunk and telling Natasha and Pepper a bit too much—trying once more to take on the Chili Dog Challenge. Thor’s always good fun at bowling, talking loudly about the discovery of a new cloud formation and, just when everyone thinks the coast is clear, bringing up his gorgeous but definitely psychotic sister who Tony may or may not have slept with.

Still, Steve agrees, “Thor’s always a good time,” because he’s not really sure what Peggy’s talking about, and he’s always kind of liked the way her lips purse when she knows Steve’s being dense on purpose.

“No,” she tells him, “I meant Bruce. And, for that matter, Clint and Phil. Something is definitely going on with Clint and Phil.”

“Some family thing, I think.” They keep fucking off to Iowa and Steve had heard once, in passing conversation that Phil then determinedly steered right past, that Clint grew up there. Clint doesn’t really talk about his family, just his niece, but she’s Phil’s sister’s kid. Steve doesn’t know what’s in Iowa for them now, why all of a sudden, but Clint has Phil and Phil has Clint and they seem to have their collective shit together on any given day so he’s not really worried.

“And what about Bruce?” Peggy prompts.

Steve sighs. He doesn’t really know what to do about that. Steve’s phone is still saying that he has no missed calls, no incoming texts. He worries what he’s going to find when he gets home. “That I don’t know,” Steve admits, “I’ve never understood them.” Steve’s never understood much about dating or women and this thing between Bruce and Natasha, that is something completely its own.

Peggy taps her fingers on the steering wheel, and Steve thinks she looks lovely in the golden glow of street lights, “Well,” Peggy decides, “As long as they’re happy.”

Steve’s not so sure it’s that simple.

 

 

(Bucky’s not there when they get home.

“He’s a grown man,” Peggy tells him, stern, “He’s allowed to have his own life.”

Steve is forced to agree but he doesn’t have to like it.)

 

 

It’s Saturday and Peggy is off with Colonel Phillips, smoking cigars and talking about panzers or whatever it is they discuss that isn’t the Colonel’s apparent distrust of Steve and his life choices (“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peggy always argues, “Chester adores you.”). It’s also eleven AM and Bucky is in the kitchen. For a moment, Steve feels as though he has tripped into an alternate reality, one where Bucky gets up at a decent hour on the weekend and actually cooks himself breakfast.

“Be careful,” Bucky warns, “your face might freeze that way.”

“Sorry, man,” Steve returns, “I just didn’t think you knew how to get up before noon,” except that’s not what Steve wants to say at all. Not when Bucky’s standing there in track pants and a wife beater, scar bared for the world to see. It’s the first time, Steve thinks, that Bucky’s been so casual about it. He jokes about the amputation sometimes, sure. He’s started going to the shrinks and the docs a little more on the regular. But he doesn’t show it off. Always has a t-shirt on, and Steve has been repressing all his memories from college, Bucky and him on the wrong side of a hangover, standing in their boxer shorts and nothing else because their bodies were nothing to hide, trying to figure out how to cook bacon without burning it because there was no way in Hell either one of them was up to walking outside into the bright and unforgiving sun.

“Fuck you,” Bucky says cheerfully, “You want eggs?”

Steve has had Bucky’s eggs. They were terrible when they were hungover in college and they’ve been terrible ever since. “Sure thing,” Steve agrees. People who don’t think Steve is a glutton for punishment clearly don’t know him. Besides, he’s missed his friend.

 

 

Bucky tells Steve that he went out with Natasha last night. He tells Steve that she is beautiful and that she is fierce and that she can drink anyone under the table. It’s nothing Steve doesn’t already know. Nothing he hasn’t witnessed firsthand.

Steve wants to chime in, to talk about that weekend where he and Natasha stayed in and watched every single Rocky movie ever made because Peggy was in London and Bruce was in Stockholm and Clint and Phil were in Worcester. And he doesn’t talk about that time that he and Peggy had that big fight and Natasha didn’t even ask, just kept pace with Steve, drink for drink, during the night and, in the morning, went and found Peggy. Went and said something that made that first step to recovery just that little bit easier.

Steve says, “Just be careful,” because he knows Natasha better than Bucky does and understands that the way into her heart is not easy.

Bucky plasters a shit-eating grin onto his face, “When am I ever careful?”

That’s exactly what Steve is worried about.

 

 

“So, I think Bucky and Natasha are sleeping together,” Steve tells Tony because he needs to tell someone and Clint is not an option, not where Natasha’s concerned. Especially not when he and Phil keep being MIA.

Tony’s face lights up, and Steve thinks that it’s indecent, the way a grown man can act like such a child, and Steve hopes that Tony never changes, stays as manic and wonderful as he is now. “No wonder Bruce has been acting like there is no Higgs Bosson particle.” Tony chews on the end of his pen and Steve thinks it’s sheer luck that Tony got the end and not the nib, “Do you think if I played up the whole pacemaker-open-heart-surgery thing I’d have a shot with Natasha too?”

Steve has changed his mind. Tony can stop acting like a horny frat brother any time now. “She would eat you alive,” he tells Tony seriously.

Tony grins, cocksure and manic, “Better watch out for your boy, then.”

That’s the problem with Tony, sometimes he says exactly what Steve doesn’t want to admit.

 

 

(“You’re not sleeping with her, are you?” Steve asks one night and Bucky just laughs and laughs and laughs. Steve’s not really sure what to make of that.)

 

 

Sometimes Peggy likes to force Steve to go on double dates with Phil and Clint. Steve’s not really sure what’s in it for them; the one time he asked Clint had just said, “But we love you Steven,” and, anyways, it’s better than that time Peggy invited them to their Wednesday night swing class. Steve is never making that mistake again.

But it’s not so bad. Steve talks baseball with Phil and occasionally the administrative side of work. Peggy just tries to pump them for wedding advice, which Clint is weirdly into (“Peggy, you’re better than that. I don’t care how good Steve looks in blue and how much you rock the red lipstick”).

“How’s your friend?” Phil asks, very clearly trying to tune out the stern conversation Peggy and Clint are having about wedding colors.

“He’s fine,” Steve lies, and then he realizes that Phil is actually the most sensible person he knows, “I don’t think he’s adjusting well, but he doesn’t talk about it,” Steve admits, “And he’s been spending a lot of time with Natasha.”

“Well,” Phil says reasonably, “At least you know that things are going to end in either blood or tears,” and then, “Don’t listen to him Peggy. I let him pick out the wedding colors and chose _purple_.”

“I did,” Clint agrees, smug, “You don’t even want to know what he did to convince me that he didn’t have to wear a purple waistcoat.”

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Phil blush like that before.

 

 

(On Wednesdays, Steve and Peggy go dancing. There’s this little studio downtown that teaches swing, and Steve has always been a hopeless dancer, but having choreography helps. Peggy just laughs when he trips over her feet and says, “Maybe not this song, then, for the wedding.”

Steve doesn’t care if he falls flat on his face at his wedding. Doesn’t care if he trips or stumbles or is anything less than graceful, just as long as Peggy keeps on looking at him like that. Keeps on being his.)

 

 

Bruce says, “Natasha’s her own woman, she can do what she wants,” which is an odd answer because Steve was just wondering if he wanted to grab lunch at that new Thai place.

“Sure,” Steve agrees. Bruce’s trashcan is filled with the remains of yellow pencils, snapped in half, and he has a worn business card tapped to his phone that says, _Dr. Collins, Anger Management_. Steve understands now why the grad student he passed in the hallway looked like she’d been crying. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The pencil Bruce is holding snaps in two. “No,” he says, deceptively calm, “Not really.”

There are those who have accused Steve of being bullheaded, but Steve understands limits and he understands people and he has known Bruce long enough to know exactly why Clint calls him _The Hulk_. “Okay, lunch then?”

Bruce’s eyes are too bright and his smile grim, “Maybe next time.”

Steve doesn’t push it.

 

 

Steve’s not really sure what Bucky does with his days, when Steve’s in class and Peggy is at the library or with the Colonel. Not that he’s worried. He comes home and Bucky is always dressed and the apartment is clean and whenever Steve asks what he did with his day Bucky just shrugs, “I was out and about. Getting back into the swing of things, you know.”

And Steve doesn’t know, not really. But then one day he comes home and Bucky is smiling and his lip his split and he says, “I’m teaching Natasha krav maga.”

Steve’s not really sure that’s a good idea, can’t figure out how that works with one arm, but there’s fire in Bucky’s eyes and for the first time, Steve thinks that this thing with Natasha might not be such a bad idea after all.

 

 

Of course, then Natasha takes Bucky to bowling.

 

 

Bucky has a split lip and a black eye. Bucky has fire in his eyes and a smile on his face and his laugh sounds wild and alive and pure.

“Jesus,” Steve yells, presses ice against his friends face, “I thought I told you not to do anything stupid.”

“You only live once,” Bucky agrees, and Steve thinks that maybe this was always going to end in blood and maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what Bucky needed.

 

***

 

When Clint stumbles into Natasha’s apartment on a Saturday afternoon, he takes one look at the popcorn bowl nestled between her and Bucky on the couch, and the beer bottles littered around the sofa and says, “Bruce can never find out.”

“He won’t,” Natasha tells him simply. Natasha tries to live without complications where she can, and Bruce finding out about her and Bucky is a big complication. One she is not ready to deal with.

“Uh huh,” Clint agrees, not even trying to hide his disbelief. “Just a friendly reminder,” he adds, heading back out the door, “Hulk smash.”

Natasha makes herself feel better by throwing the DVD remote at Clint’s retreating head. She wishes it didn’t feel like such an empty gesture.

 

 

Bucky doesn’t ask about Bruce. Bucky doesn’t ask about a lot of things, but Natasha still finds herself telling him about the bad nights, the ones in Russia that she pretends in polite conversation don’t exist. And Bucky gives her his own bad nights in return, an eye for an eye, and there’s a simplicity to that that Natasha likes. That Natasha respects.

Bucky doesn’t ask so Natasha teaches him yoga and he teaches her krav maga in return. She likes that he doesn’t make any excuses. He has one arm. He’s seen men die and he’s killed a few himself. They talk about hardship and winter, the things in life Natasha understands in her bones, and they drink too much and Natasha thinks that she’s happy. That there’s a darkness in her and that’s okay.

 

 

(There’s a darkness in Bruce too, but Natasha tries not to think about that. There’s a rage that lives deep inside him, curls around his words and his heart and is something to be witnessed and respected and feared. But Bruce is good, as well. Bruce is soft words and soft hands and shirts fraying at the edges. And there’s something to be respected in that too, Natasha thinks, something to be admired.

Bruce is too nice and Bruce is too mean and he never expected Natasha to be anyone but herself. There is something dangerous about him and something safe, but, Natasha thinks, Bucky is dangerous also. She thinks that she needs some space to clear her head and someone new to make her heart race.

Bucky will do, Natasha thinks, for now.)

 

 

“Have you thought about names?” Natasha asks. She is sitting at Clint and Phil’s breakfast bar. Last night was Finals Exams Drinking Game with Clint and Natasha is too proud to admit that she has a hangover. She can’t figure out who Phil is trying to punish, her or Clint,  but he has the kitchen fan on and all the lights and he keeps making the damn dog _sit, stay, speak_ before feeding him bacon. It’s too bright and it’s too loud but Natasha will do many things for one of Phil’s perfectly cooked breakfast sandwiches.

Clint grimaces, “We’re trying not to get our hopes up.”

“She’s yours though, isn’t she?” Natasha continues, “That’s what you told me the lawyer said.”

Now it’s Phil’s turn to frown, “That’s what he said last time, too.”

Natasha remembers that. Clint and Phil didn’t really talk about it then and she didn’t ask, but she could see unhappiness in their eyes, in the way they held themselves and held each other and tried to block the rest of the world out. “Just as long as you don’t pick something terrible,” she concedes, “Like Drusilla.”

“That’s my mother’s name,” Phil tells her seriously the same time Clint says, thoughtfully, “Dru’s kind of a cute nickname.”

Natasha just laughs and ignores the dopey smiles on both her friends’ faces.

 

 

There’s a box of Bruce’s things in Natasha’s apartment. This is fine. _They’re just things_ , Bruce had said the first time they’d started not fighting, and his smile was sad and there was something dark in his eyes and Natasha had thought, _fuck this_ , but didn’t do anything about it because Bruce wasn’t hers and there was nothing left to do.

It’s always there, the box, no matter how things are between him and Natasha. It’s always full of the things Bruce doesn’t need—scrap papers and pens and marked up drafts of his latest paper—and it always seems emptiest when Bruce spends more nights in Natasha’s bed than his own. But, Natasha thinks, in the moments between wakefulness and sleep, that might be because that’s when his papers are scattered across her desk, his clothes across her bedroom floor, as he curls an arm around her—not too tight—and breathes, soft and comforting, into her ear.

Natasha ignores it now, like she does most Bruce related things. She lets it gather dust and drapes it in scarves so she doesn’t have to look at it. She’s always been good at compartmentalizing, but there’s something about Bruce that refuses to be categorized, to be sorted and set aside.

Of course, it would be easier to forget and move on if Clint and Phil’s damn dog wasn’t sitting on Natasha’s living room rug, gnawing at the spine of _Isaac Asimov: The Complete Series, Vol.2_. She curses the day she agreed to dogsit and she curses the day Bruce curled up on her living room couch, not asking anything more from Natasha than a place to sit, and Natasha wishes that she was as heartless as everyone seemed to think.

Besides, they’re just things.

 

 

“So,” Tony says, beer and nachos in hand, “is that the man candy?” Steve and Bucky are fighting in a corner and Peggy is looking supremely bored by it all. It’s been going on for a while now.

“How’s sleeping with all your departments TAs going?” Natasha asks instead of answering. Bucky isn’t up for discussion.

“Strangely, Pepper finds it to be a turn off,” Tony tells her, “And Thor promised me a great deal of bodily harm if I even touched Darcy.”

“You maybe shouldn’t have slept with his sister,” Natasha says stealing a nacho. Tony shouldn’t grimace like he does, it’s true.

Tony stands and takes his nachos with him. “You maybe should talk to Bruce before this gets weird. Weirder,” he takes a swig of beer and looks up at the neon glow of the score board, “Well, at least before he takes Bucky out back and beats him to death with his last remaining arm. But you’re a smart woman, Romanov. You know what to do.”

Natasha hates it when Tony manages to pull his head out of his ass. He’s always been too smart for his own good.

 

 

“Loki ate your book,” Natasha says, her opening gambit. She pulls it out of her purse and shows it to him—the bottom of the spine turned into pulp, the shape of the dog’s teeth imprinted in the pages. She doesn’t say _sorry_ though. Things happen. They’re just things.

Bruce takes it from her, is careful not to touch her hand, but when he looks up, he looks into her eyes. “It’s not a problem,” he says, “It’s just the edges.”

The thing is, Natasha knew he was going to say that, or something like it. Bruce will always bend. Will always give and give and give until he doesn’t anymore. Until he snaps, and it’s always been the recoil that Natasha’s terrified of. Never knows what is going to be left in its wake.

They sit in silence for a moment, and Natasha has never been fond of idle conversation, but she knows the sound of awkward silence when she hears it. There is a clatter of a ball hitting pins behind her and Clint’s whoop of victory, the sound of Thor’s happy laugh. Somewhere nearby a child laughs and someone wins at pinball, but Natasha refuses to look, keeps her eyes on Bruce’s hands, because they are honest and they are kind and she is scared of what will happen if she meets his eyes. Scared of what will happen if she leaves. If she stays.

“So, Bucky,” Bruce says at last, “He seems like an interesting guy.”

“He’s like the worst parts of Tony and Clint,” she tells him honestly, “You’ll hate him.”

Bruce’s fingers trace the outline of Loki’s teeth, run over the ridges of ruined paper and Natasha is not prone to thinking in metaphors, but the pages in Bruce’s hand are salvageable, and Natasha has learned to take her lessons where they are given to her.

“Sounds like your perfect guy,” Bruce says, purposely cruel.

And Natasha has always liked Bruce’s hands. Always liked how he is soft but he is not weak. Always liked that he’s never made her any promises, but comes back anyways.

“Well.” Natasha leaves the sentence unfinished. There is always that.

 

 

Bowling ends in blood and Bucky’s laugh, burning like wildfire through Natasha’s ears. There is no time to talk to either of them before Steve is taking Bucky away, before Tony is calming Bruce.

Bucky smiles and Natasha thinks he is beautiful. There is blood on Bruce’s hand and Natasha thinks that he’s a mystery she wants to spend her whole life solving.

 

 

“You should probably make sure there aren’t any more book over here that you don’t want chewed on,” Natasha tells Bruce late at night

Bruce presses a kiss to her shoulder, “We could always use a little danger.”

 

***

 

Phil says, “Maybe we should tell someone,” and Clint knows he means _one of us has to man up and tell our friends because this is getting embarrassing_.

“We could just not tell anyone,” Clint counters, because he is an asshole, “See how long it takes them to notice.”

Phil is not amused. Phil just fixes him with one of those _looks_ , the one that makes all the new hires secretly cry in the bathroom and makes Clint feel like a child being scolded, which is creepy and weird because this is his _husband_.

“Mass text it is then,” Clint decides seriously, pulling out his phone.

He in no way displeased when the ensuing wrestling match turns into sex on the kitchen table. He’s going to miss that when the baby gets here, but, Clint thinks, it’ll be worth it.

 

 

Adopting a child involves a metric fuckton of paperwork. It’s not really a surprise. It had the first time around and that had ended in Clint and Phil spending a week in Massachusetts not really talking to each other and playing with Phil’s niece when they were supposed to have a son of their own.

This time though, it’s going to happen. This time, Clint and Phil are going to fly to Iowa and they are going to come home with a daughter and there is nothing in the world that can stop them, if the pile of legal documents that used to be the Amazon Rain Forest their lawyer just dropped off is anything to go by.

“We should just tell Peggy,” Clint says. He’s signed his name so much tonight that it’s starting to no longer look like a real word.

Phil looks up, and Clint makes a mental note to make sure Phil sees a chiropractor or something otherwise he is going to ruin his back sitting hunched over like that. “What, make her do our dirty work for us?”

Clint just nods. He’s never been one for the whole, big announcement thing. And neither has Phil, for that matter. They told people they were getting married by sending out the wedding invitations.

Phil pauses for a minute, considering. “It might be easier,” he agrees. Clint has always loved this man.

 

 

(They decide that since they’re already going to see everyone on Friday, they might as well tell people at bowling. Sometime near the end. There’s no need to make a fuss. Phil’s family has already made enough of one and Clint has never been so glad for the distance between them if it keeps his sister-in-law and her party planning ways at bay.

Like most things in Clint’s life, this does not turn out how he was expecting.)

 

 

“Are you happy now?” Clint asks Natasha. Steve has taken Bucky home. Tony has taken Bruce. Peggy and Phil and Pepper sit together, bowling forgotten, and try and figure out what to do. Clint doesn’t know what exactly went down when Bruce and Bucky happened to be in the bathroom at the same time, and he’s not sure he wants to.

Natasha smiles and it doesn’t reach her eyes, “I wanted to know what would happen.”

“Natasha, love of my life, apple of my eye,” Clint tells her, “That’s bullshit.”

Clint is in the middle of adopting a child. Clint is in the middle of dealing with all the emotional stress that comes with that coupled with the memories of seeing the baby who was supposed the be his and Phil’s son before their lawyer and come out and said _I’m, so sorry, but she’s changed her mind; she’s keeping him_. And he’s not even mentioning his own childhood.

Natasha turns away and Clint lets her. Lets her get up and lets her leave and lets her say, “It’s not about _happy_ , Clint.”

Of course, that’s bullshit too. Clint has gone through a lot of shit in his life, and it was always because he thought it would make him happy. It’s not his fault that he was usually wrong. Natasha will get there, one day. She’ll stop with the games and understand the simplicity of the human heart, but for now there is this. There is a group of friends and a bowling alley and two men, one who might love Natasha for who she is and one who might love her for what she could be and Clint sometimes thinks he is the only man who will ever love her for both.

There’s no use stopping her from leaving. Clint knows that she’ll be back. Clint knows that he’ll be there when she needs him.

 

 

“So, that could have gone better,” Phil says on the ride home. NPR is playing softly in the background like usual, and sometimes Clint thinks that if anything ever happens to Phil, then Clint will never be able to listen to Ira Glass without crying.

Clint laughs, a hollow sound, and Phil smiles, eyes crinkling around the edges, “It could have gone worse, too.”

“Amen,” Clint agrees, his laugh genuine.

 

 

Clint and Natasha don’t talk for a few days. This is acceptable. It’s Spring Break, after all. Natasha comes by they Friday, bottle of vodka in hand, and says, “Midterms drinking game?”

This too, is acceptable, even though Phil banned Midterms Drinking game early on. There is a Cementing the Friendship of Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov clause built in there, however, and besides, Clint needs a drink after spending a week trying to convince his sister-in-law that Phil and he do not actually _need_ to have a baby shower.

“Breakfast is on you,” Clint tells her, letting her in and yelling to Phil that they have company.

Natasha’s smile is worth it, for whatever lay between them.

 

 

“He’s seeing Dr. Collins again,” Natasha says that night. It’s two in the morning and Phil is asleep and Loki is restless at Clint’s heels, unhappy that his humans aren’t both asleep in the bedroom like they’re supposed to be.

Clint reaches down to scratch behind his ears, “Was this before or after he beat up one of America’s finest?”

“Before,” Natasha says. She’s laying down, head resting on Clint’s lap, and he uses his free hand to run his fingers through her hair.

Clint doesn’t understand this thing between Natasha and Bruce. Doesn’t know how they make it work and doesn’t know what makes it break, but he knows that it’s important. Knows that Natasha smiles a little easier when Bruce is around. Knows that Bruce is angry less, for whatever that’s worth.

It’s not like he can judge the fucked up love lives of his friends. Clint is married and he has a dog and a house with a picket fence and a kid on the way, but that doesn’t mean it was easy. Doesn’t mean that he and Phil don’t have issues and that Clint doesn’t have a past.

“Well,” Clint says because he has to say something, “That’s something.”

Natasha reaches up, holds Clint’s hand in her own, the alcohol making her affectionate. It feels like progress.

 

 

Phil and Clint go on couples dates with Steve and Peggy mostly to make up for that time they went swing dancing with them and partially because they’re both trying to act like responsible adults who are capable of raising another human being.

“So, we’re adopting a kid,” Clint says when there’s a lull in conversation, “Oh hey, burgers.”

He sort of wishes he had the foresight to pull out his phone so he could snap a picture of Peggy and Steve’s faces. Priceless doesn’t even begin to cover it.

 

 

(“I’d be angry with you,” Phil tells him later that night, curled up against Clint’s side, “But it really was getting embarrassing.”

“It’s like a band-aid, you just rip it off.” Clint says instead of, _I really just meant to ask if Peggy had picked out a dress yet_.)

 

 

This is how it ends: in a hospital in Iowa, Clint and Phil being told, “Congratulations,” by a nurse, hair curling around her face, as she hands them their daughter.

“She’s magnificent,” Phil says, his hands cradling their daughter’s head, her tiny body. Clint’s not quite sure that’s right, not sure it encompasses everything in his heart, but he can’t think of anything better to call her. She has ten fingers and ten toes, a mess of dark hair on the top of her head, and wide, curious eyes. Clint thinks he will never be happier than he is now.

“She’s _ours_ ,” Clint says, because he can’t quite believe it. He holds one of her tiny hands in his and she gurgles, happy.

Phil rests his head on Clint’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees, “she is.”

 

 

(Flying home with a new baby is perhaps one of the more harrowing experiences of Clint’s life, but he has a _kid_ and Phil can’t stop smiling, and Clint didn’t know he could fall in love so fast. That he could love someone _so much_.)

 

 

They name her Eleanor Grace Coulson-Barton. Phil and Clint have a standing pact to never discuss how horrible her last name is, but really, there was nothing to be done. Of course that doesn’t stop Clint from telling Natasha, “Ellie. Her name is Ellie,” even though the nickname makes Phil frown. Whatever, he’ll get over it.

Natasha smiles and doesn’t move to take Eleanor from his arms, “Hello, Ellie,” she says, and Clint is glad that his daughter will have Natasha in her life.

 

 

Or maybe it ends like this: Everyone is over at Clint and Phil’s and they are passing around Eleanor and there is laughter and the happy giggles of a child well-loved. Natasha sits by Bruce and doesn’t touch him. Steve shrugs, says, _Bucky’s thinking about moving out_ , and that’s that for now. Which is honestly fine, because Clint has more important things to deal with.

Peggy says, “I vote Natasha has kids next,” and everyone laughs because they all know it’s going to be Thor and Jane.

Phil is leaning against Clint, a soft smile on his face, watching Peggy hold their daughter with careful hands.

Life, Clint thinks, is pretty good.


End file.
